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Katt Dunsmore is a writer and book illustrator. Her stories appear in Crime and Suspense Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, Flashshots, and Silver Moon Magazine. Katt is also an illustrator for Koboca Publishing. Her long list of current projects includes “The EX-Factor,” an anthology written with a group of talented writers, to be released Friday, October 13th, 2006, by Koboca Publishing.

Priorities by Tonya “Katt” Dunsmore

The sudden, bright light brought Salvatore out of a solid, deep sleep.

What the hell? "Quanitra, what the hell are you doing? Damn it, I'm trying to sleep here! Cut it out!" He was always a bear when he was awakened.

Quanitra didn't answer. He wasn't really surprised that she was ignoring him. I know she's pissed off, but this is crazy.

"Come on, Babe. Shut the light out. Please?"

No answer.

Man, I hate it when she gets like this. It’s not like it was a big deal. After ten years of marriage, she should be used to this every now and then. It’s not like I make a habit of it.

***

Salvatore had been on the way out the door at work when some of the guys from work that he was friendly with asked him to come shoot a few games of pool. He didn’t think it was that big of a deal, so he went, only meaning to play a few games, then come home and spend a quiet evening with his wife, Quanitra. When he came through the door at 2AM, the house was mostly dark and his wife was sitting on the couch in her nightgown and robe, reading a book under the only light in the room, the table lamp. He noticed a pillow and folded blanket on the cushion beside her.

I guess one of us is sleeping on the couch tonight. He sighed and knelt down in front of her.

"Come on, babe. I only go out with the guys every once in awhile. It's been at least a month. I'm not like Dave, out three, four times a week. Give me a smooch, huh?" he said as he leaned over to kiss her.

Quanitra never took her eyes off the page of her book. "Your dinner is in the microwave."

He wasn't really hungry; he and the guys had grabbed some wings at the bar, but Salvatore sat at the kitchen table and ate every bite of the plate of pot roast, buttered carrots, and mashed potatoes and gravy his wife had saved for him anyway. If he didn't, she'd be even angrier than she already was. He wished he knew what had her so mad. He knew that Quanitra didn't exactly like it when he went out with the guys, but she wasn't usually this ticked off, either.

After trying to talk to her while he ate and receiving only a few brief, silent stares in response, Salvatore gave up and finished eating his dinner in silence, washed it down with a glass of sweet tea, and put his dirty dishes in the sink. He ran water over them, and then went to take a shower. When he came back out into the living room ten minutes later, towel drying his hair, the light was off and his wife was curled up under the blanket, her back to him.

Great. She really is pissed off. I wonder what it will take to get out of the doghouse this time?

He knew it was no good trying to talk to her when she got to this point. Salvatore tucked the blanket around her, kissed her cheek, and turned around and went back to their bedroom to finish drying off. He pulled an old comfortable pair of boxers out of his drawer and got dressed for bed. He lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and smoking a cigarette. He didn't usually smoke in bed, but smoking helped him think, and he was trying to figure out what he was going to say to Quanitra in the morning. He stubbed the butt out in the ashtray on the nightstand and rolled over, hoping things would be better when he got up in a few hours. Whatever she was so angry about, he’d make it up to her. Maybe he would take her and the kids out for breakfast and then go look at yard sales or something.

***

Salvatore tried to ignore the light and go back to sleep, but it was no good; the light was too bright. After a few minutes, he decided to get up and turn out the light himself.

He couldn't move.

Hey! What the––?

He struggled to raise himself up, and then gave up. A flurry of random, scattered thoughts rolled through his head.

Wait a minute. Why is there a light on the ceiling? We don't have overhead lights in our bedroom, just those bedside lamps my mom and dad gave us.

Why did she give me mashed potatoes with pot roast? Usually it's roasted potatoes.

Why can't I get up?

And why sweet tea? I hate sweet tea, she knows that.

Why is it so damned cold in here? Quanitra usually keeps this place like a damned oven.

Quanitra? Babe?

Salvatore suddenly realized that he hadn't spoken out loud at all. It had all been in his head. He also knew why Quanitra was so angry: last night had been their tenth wedding anniversary. It was supposed to be just them, a candlelit dinner, and no kids.

And I screwed it up by going out with the guys. Oh shit. I’m toast. She’s gonna kill me.

But why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he talk?

A shadow fell across his line of vision, which he only now realized seemed to be stuck straight ahead.

A man he didn’t know was leaning over him and staring into his face. The man spoke, and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.

"Poor bastard. He never knew what hit him."

A voice came from the right, "Did they arrest the wife?"

"Yeah, she confessed," a second voice came from the right.

"Man, that’s gotta suck: poisoned by your own wife. Did she say why she did it?" the first voice from the right spoke again.

Wha? Poisoned? By Quanitra? No way. She wouldn’t. This is some kind of a nightmare.

The second voice from the right spoke while the face leaning over him swam in and out of focus as he reached for something outside of Salvatore’s view, "Something about missing their anniversary. She kept saying the same thing over and over again––‘he never had his priorities straight.’ Apparently he missed one anniversary too many and she got tired of it."

The face over his looked up at the men he couldn’t see. "Okay, Bob, Detective, let’s get this done. I’ve got my own anniversary dinner to get to tonight."

"Wait, what’s going on? What are you going to do?" Salvatore tried to ask.

Something white hot was dragged down one side of Salvatore’s chest. The pain was horrible, but seemed to come from a distance, like he could feel it but not really feel it. Another burning stroke went down the other side of his chest, and then continued down his stomach. Salvatore screamed in agony, but instead of echoing through the room, it only echoed inside his own head.

"Holy shit! Doc, do they usually bleed this much?" the detective asked.

"Not usually, but you run across it from time to time. If the body hasn’t been dead very long, like in this guy’s case – less than six hours, the blood hasn’t had time to coagulate and so it runs a little more freely. A lot of things can affect coagulation time––room temp, for one. The bedroom he was in was pretty warm," the man the detective had called ‘Doc’ answered.

And everything clicked. Salvatore knew where he was and who these men were. He was being autopsied…alive…paralyzed by whatever Quanitra had put in his potatoes or tea…unable to move or make himself heard…trapped inside his own mind. They thought he was dead, but he wasn’t.

Stop! I’m not dead! I’m here! I’m alive! he silently screamed. The men standing over him could not hear him.

"What did she use?" the voice came again from his right.

The detective answered, "Some kind of potion she got from some bruja at one of the occult stores downtown. She seemed surprised that he was dead, said that it was only supposed to ‘keep him at home.’ Guess she bought more than she bargained for. We’re looking for the bruja now."

The man leaning over him moved out of his line of vision. Salvatore felt another hot streak burning from behind his right ear across the top of his head to behind his left ear. The pain seemed so much closer than the other incisions. He felt a tearing sensation, and then suddenly, his vision was clouded by black curls.

At least that damnable bright light is gone. Wait ––that’s my hair. Oh my god, he’s going to open up my skull!

Salvatore tried again to sit up. This time, he felt like he actually moved a little. He knew he was right when the detective spoke again.

"Hey, his foot moved a little. Are you sure he’s dead?"

Bob said, "Sure, bodies twitch all the time. It’s just nerves that haven’t burned out yet. It’s almost like the body doesn’t know its dead yet. We had a guy sit straight up one time in the crypt, scared the piss out of an intern." Bob and Doc chuckled.

When the saw started up a few minutes later, Salvatore welcomed the sound, knowing it would give him release from the horrendous pain. He imagined the saw coming toward his forehead, heard a crunching sound and felt pain so massive it almost overwhelmed him.

Then, silence…and finally, finally, blessed darkness.

THE END